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Metropolitan Diary

This is a digitized version of an article from The Times’s print archive, before the start of online publication in 1996.
To preserve these articles as they originally appeared, The Times does not alter, edit or update them.

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CHARLOTTE BRUNDAGE is on a cash machine line at 73d Street and Madison Avenue. The fellow in front of her, she can't help but notice, is pretty snazzy looking. He is on the far side of 40 - though not too far; his tan is golden; his blond hair curls over his shirt collar and, Ms. Brundage muses, it has been bleached by either the Beverly Hills or Mediterranean sun.

It is his turn at the money machine. He moves up, punches in his code, waits, stares at the screen for some time. Even with just a rear view Ms. Brundage is aware that something is not going as planned. The fellow turns around.

''I can't believe it,'' he says, astonishment in his voice. ''I have a negative balance of $97,000!''

Dramatis personae: A mother, her son of tender years - 3 or so - and Carolyn Handler, who overhears their conversation.

Boy: Mommy, when will you pick me up from school?

Mom: I'll be there by 10:15.

Boy, after brief pause: What's 10:15?

Mom: That's quarter after 10.

Boy: What's quarter after 10?

Mom: That's halfway between 10 and 10:30.

Boy, growing more confused: Well, how many minutes is that?

Mom: It's 75 minutes from when I drop you off at 9.

Boy: Mommy, I have no idea what you're talking about.

Dear Diary:

Since about the age of 12 I have listened to the radio at night, lying in my bed in New York City. It was, and still is, a perfect relationship: the radio's soft sounds blurring the city's sirens and screeches.

My first radio was a 12 transistor model with only two dials: one to switch stations, another to adjust the volume. A tiny light bulb illuminated a plastic pointer which I loved moving from one station to another. The program I enjoyed most was the Symphony Sid show. Another favorite was an early rock program on WNEW hosted by Alison Steele, who was billed as ''the night bird,'' a name which sounded pretty racy and grown-up to a kid who had to be home by 10 o'clock. My blue plastic radio occupied a special place on my pillow -close to my ear - meticulously balanced so that it would not fall off my pillow or slip beneath the blanket.

The pleasure of listening to the radio in bed has not diminished. What has changed is the type of radio I now have. Technology may have improved the quality of its sound but this is what I don't like: wearing headphones in bed; adjusting all those dials in an attempt to achieve perfect balance of sound; changing cassette tapes every 40 minutes.

And yet, in spite of all these ''improvements,'' our relationship goes on. I find that the reassuring sound of someone's voice or a piece of music still filter out the harsher sounds of the city like an ideal lullaby. ERIK La PRADE

Dear Diary:

Moving to one side of the counter to put away my change, I made way for a middle-aged woman who had waited patiently while I paid for my purchase at Endicott Booksellers on Columbus Avenue.

''Do you have 'The Little Prince'?'' she asked the salesclerk.

I glanced at the clerk. She wore the same happy smile of recognition that lit up my face the moment I heard the mention of that enchanting fable.

''Oh, I'm sure we do!'' she exclaimed. ''It must be in the children's books alcove.'' ''It's by Machiavelli?'' the customer asked. ''Oh, that prince.'' The salesclerk was brisk again. Her smile vanished. ''I'll have to check,'' she said. M. A. STEFAN